The Break Up
by Cassandra Elise
Summary: Thanks to Cameron's advice, Cuddy calls it quits with House. Curious about her meddling, House pursues Cameron for an answer, but soon finds himself pursuing her for entirely different reasons. AU.Chapter Ten Up! Finale. Thanks to all my faithful readers.
1. Chapter 1: The Break Up

"Doctor Cuddy!" Allison Cameron's voice was a clarion in the empty hospital halls.

Her visage careworn, Cuddy turned to face the young doctor. "Yes, Dr. Cameron?" Her tone and her listless eyes indicated that her subordinate should make this quick.

"How's the patient?" They walked side by side, Cameron in her purple scrubs and sneakers, and Cuddy in her low-cut blouse and miniskirt. They were an incongruous pair.

"Why do you care?" Cuddy was fighting for diplomacy, yet her voice came out short and strained.

"Well, I _was _the one who admitted him."

"He's doing great," Cuddy sarcastically replied. "House and his team have only misdiagnosed him three times."

"At least he's occupied." Cameron was referring to the relative lull the hospital had been experiencing lately.

"Yes. Thank God!" Cuddy's prayer of thanks was genuine. They both feigned smiles and then lapsed into an oppressive silence.

Cameron pushed a strand of her honey-brown hair out of her face, clearly hesitating. Was this her place? She didn't want to piss off her boss, but if she kept silent, she'd feel guilty for not even trying to help Cuddy. On the other hand, anything out of line could result in a severe reprimand at best and a job termination at worst. But what did she care if she lost her job? It would mean she no longer had to pretend to be interested in the silly patients in the ER who thought a splinter signified the end of the world. It would mean she'd no longer have to fight her strange, pulsating desire to solve cases with the new Ducklings. It would mean she'd no longer have to deny her feelings for _him._ She spoke her mind. "Could I talk to you about House?"

Cuddy let out an exasperated sigh. "Here it comes: the mandatory warning from one female to another. 'Don't fall for the bad boy, Lisa. You'll end up hurt and dejected.'"

"I don't know if I'd consider House a 'bad boy.' Selfish bastard, yes, but bad . . ." Cameron trailed off, her attempt at humor obviously lost on her tense companion. She licked her parched lips. "Listen. I know that House has this mesmerizing quality about him. The whole 'genius doctor nobody appreciates' bit is quite appealing. You think that nobody understands him like you do. You believe you can change him. But the truth is you can't. In order to change, a person has to _want_ to change, and House likes who he is. In his own miserable way, he's happy."

"Is this going anywhere?" Lisa stopped in her tracks, her hands on her hips in challenge mode.

"Just . . . take care of yourself. This relationship can only end in one way: one of you gets hurt."

"I seem to remember having the same conversation about you and Chase."

"See how well I listened?" After a brief ignition of old sparks, Cameron and Chase's relationship had officially ended earlier that month, suspiciously around the time Cuddy and House had started their affair.

They had reached Cuddy's office, and Cameron could tell Lisa was eager to get inside and lock the door, but Cameron reached out and grabbed her arm. "Think about what I said. Please?"

Cuddy straightened back her shoulders, shaking off Cameron's grip. She looked more together and surer of herself now. "What if House _has_ changed? What if he truly loves me?"

"Then I'm happy for you both. But I find it hard to believe that House could love you or anybody else as much as he loves himself." Cameron took a deep breath before continuing, "There was a time I thought he could love me.I even thought the kiss we shared meant something—"

"You two kissed?" The question came out in a shrill squeak.

Cameron forced a laugh. "Exactly my point. We shared this amazing kiss, and we haven't discussed it since. I thought the fact that he had responded to my kiss meant he actually felt something for me, when clearly he was only taking advantage of _my_ feelings for _him_.

"So, you see, I don't want House to take advantage of you. If you have even the slightest doubt that his feelings aren't genuine, get out. It's better that you end it now than risk getting your heart broken like I did." Cameron didn't wait for a reply, but shuffled down the hall. There. She'd done it. Cuddy could completely ignore her advice, but at least now she was satisfied that she had done all she could about the situation.

****

Cuddy stormed into House's office only to discover the doctor sprawled out in his office chair, his feet propped up on his desk, his eyes shut. She tried slamming the door, an impossible feat since it swung smoothly on hinges. She decided to do the next best thing. "You kissed her?" she yelled.

House awoke with a start. "Thanks for the gentle wake-up call," he snapped as he blinked sleep out of his eyes.

"You kissed her?" The question was even more emphatic if possible.

"Yeah, and it was HOTT!" House steadied himself with his cane and rose. "Now, who are we talking about?" He limped over to the doorway where his lover stood in a blind rage.

"Cameron."

"Cameron?" House stopped in his tracks, trying to recall when his lips had ever locked with those of the young, beautiful doctor.

"Yeah, you know: thin, skanky blonde hair, works in the ER?"

"You think her hair is skanky? Personally, so do I, but I happen to like that 'desperate tramp' look."

"I bet you do." Cuddy paced back and forth, reminding House of a noisy, irritating metronome. The metronome stopped. "Any other tramps I should know about?"

"Is this a loaded question?" Before Cuddy could utter an unsavory reply, he added, "For Pete's sake, I kissed her two years ago!" He scrunched his forehead in contemplation. "Almost two years ago."

"So you remember the exact date? And when did we first kiss?"

"Are you talking about in this lifetime or back when we were kids in college and I seduced you?"

"Stop deflecting my questions!"

"Stop being paranoid." His tone was the one he used on his Ducklings when he was disappointed and annoyed with them. The only difference was the volume was amped up 30 decibels. He reflected for a moment that his shouting would give her an excuse to yell back. He would reason with her instead, something he hated doing in relationships. Why didn't the world just "get it" like he did? "The kiss meant nothing. I'm a sexual being. When a young, hot thing sticks her tongue down my throat, I'm going to respond."

Cuddy sank into his chair, pale and wide eyed. "There was tongue?"

"Well, duh!" He rolled his eyes, as if Cuddy was completely idiotic not to have assumed such a thing. House noted that she looked close to tears, for some infuriating reason. The last thing he needed was a weeping woman in his office. "It meant nothing," he repeated.

"Do my kisses mean nothing?"

House swung his cane around like a whirling dervish and slammed it down on his desk, scattering papers across the room. "So I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't? How is this fair? I'm sleeping with you, not Cameron. There are no similarities between her situation and yours."

Cuddy crossed to the door and said over her shoulder as she left, "I'm not so sure."

****

House was going to kill her, that is, if he could limp to the doctors' locker room fast enough. He succeeded. When House barged in, Cameron was pulling on her coat, examining her reflection in the mirror she had attached to her locker door. She didn't even have to glance at him to know who it was. "Good thing I was already dressed," she calmly joked.

"You can just forget whatever stupid plan you've concocted to break up Cuddy and me."

Cameron hoped he didn't notice her trembling hand as she shut her locker. "I don't know what you're talking about," she lied.

"Don't give me that crap." House sank onto a bench and banged his cane on the floor for extra emphasis. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you told her we kissed."

She crossed her arms, the only protection she had against the steely blue eyes boring a hole into her. "All right. So I knew what would happen, but I didn't do it for the reason you suspect."

He snorted in disbelief and popped a Vicodin into his mouth. That was his protection.

"You don't have to believe me. Just hear me out. I care about Lisa, and I didn't want her to get hurt."

"So you sent her over the edge with jealousy instead. Makes perfect sense," House sarcastically drawled.

"I don't have to explain myself to you." Cameron made for the exit, but House stood and blocked her way.

"Oh, no? You just ruined our relationship."

"It wasn't much of a relationship if it fell apart over one friend's advice." She stared at him, daring him to respond with some caustic remark, but he merely stared back unblinkingly. She managed to push past him, but his voice still followed her into the hallway.

"You expect me to believe your motives were completely selfless? That you—"

"That I what?" She faced him again. "That I wasn't trying to get you for myself?" She looked past his shoulder down the long, blindingly white corridor. "I'm over you, House."

"Strange how easy that is to say when you aren't looking right at me."

She took up his challenge and gazed directly into his eyes. "I'm over you."


	2. Chapter 2: The Aftermath

House leaned back in his swivel chair, determined to ignore the discomfiting quiet and inky blackness of his office. He could turn on the light, but that would alert his overtaxed Ducklings to his presence. And then they would bombard him with questions about the patient, hoping he would miraculously solve the case so they could get home before midnight. Well, too bad. If he was suffering, he'd bring them down with him. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't have the answers to life. He didn't know how involuntary shaking, internal bleeding, and a dangerously high fever were connected. It bothered him to no end, but he wasn't God.

He rubbed his temple and went over the evening in his head. After his confrontation with Cameron, he had gone over to Cuddy's place only to discover her unceremoniously tossing the few belongings he had brought over in the last few weeks onto the front lawn. He hadn't needed an interpreter to translate. The message had been loud and clear: Cuddy and he were through. Just as well. He hadn't been looking forward to apologizing for doing nothing wrong.

He had barely gathered his stuff off the ground when his cell phone had rung. It had been a text message from Wilson which read: "U R AN ASS!!" Of course, Cuddy had confided in Wilson about the breakup. Now he had no friends . . . again. Oh well. He was used to it.

Now back in his office, he was having the ultimate pity-party. Screw the patient, screw his Ducklings, screw Wilson, screw Cuddy, and definitely screw Cameron. He supposed he could work on his case to distract his mind, but he didn't want to be at the hospital. He wanted to wallow in front of his own television, and yet an unrecognizable force prevented him from getting on his bike and returning to his empty apartment. Was it anger, laziness, or—God forbid—loneliness? Damn it! Why was he suddenly so human?

He was interrupted from his pity-party by the sound of his ducklings outside his office. He held his breath and hoped they couldn't see him hidden in the shadows.

"See, I told you, he's not here," said Taub, his typical strident timbre even more whiny.

"Maybe he's sitting in the dark," Kutner persisted, his hand on the door's handle.

"Why are you so determined to find House?" Thirteen demanded. "We can solve this case on our own."

"Yeah, like the 30 other cases we solved," Taub mockingly agreed. Thirteen gave him the death glare. "I'm just saying—"

"What do you think happened between House and Cuddy?" Kutner's question was so far left-field that for a moment his companions were speechless.

"Um . . . none of my business. Don't care," Taub replied.

"House's problem, definitely don't care," Thirteen added.

"Oh, come on. You're not the least bit curious?" Kutner cajoled. "The entire hospital heard them screaming at each other."

"Once again, this is House," Thirteen reiterated. "You're surprised he can't keep a girlfriend?"

Foreman rounded the corner at full speed, spotted the three of them huddled around House's office door, and came to an abrupt halt. "What are you doing? The patient just went into cardiac arrest and you're standing around gossiping? Did you all turn off your pagers, or something?" The team exchanged looks and sheepishly turned on their pagers. "Nice work," said Foreman derisively.

"We're worried about House and Cuddy," Kutner explained, much to his partners' chagrin.

Foreman straightened his pink tie which had come askew during his jog. "Nothing to worry about. House wants what he can't have. He likes the challenge of attaining the unattainable. For years House made sexual advances at Cuddy, and the more she resisted, the harder he pursued her. Now that she's given in, he finds her boring.

"It was the same with Cameron. He flirted with her for about ten seconds until she developed a crush on him. Then, all of a sudden, he wanted nothing to do with her. When she started dating Chase, he started hounding her again. She broke up with Chase, and House has barely said two words to her.

"As I said, he wants a challenge. He'll be coming after you next, Dr. Hadley."

Thirteen rolled her eyes. "Oh, goodie."

Kutner made an excited noise in the back of his throat. "I think I know what's wrong with the patient." The foursome dashed off, leaving House once again alone in his office, plagued by his thoughts.

Was Foreman right? Did he view relationships as he viewed cases: the more challenging, the more desirable? It would explain so much, like why he found Stacy ten times more attractive after she was married, or why he never appreciated Wilson's friendship until they were on non-speaking terms. So what did this revelation mean? Did he get down on his knees, bum leg and all, and apologize to Cuddy? Did he let her come crawling back to him? Did he get psychiatric help?

"This is all Cameron's fault," he muttered. He fumbled in the dark for his Vicodin bottle and popped two pills. Cameron. Sometimes he'd wake up in the night, the taste of strawberry lip gloss and coffee on his lips. The first time this had happened, it had taken him a moment to realize that what he tasted was Cameron. He would never admit this to anyone, but he loved her flavor. He craved it—like his pills.

He thought of Cuddy's kisses: urgent, full of fire and lust, hard and fast like a passionate exclamation. Cameron's kiss had been slow and delicate, the urgency masked by the hesitancy, soft like a whisper. House wondered when he had become such a damned poet and took another Vicodin.

Wilson chose that inopportune moment to stick his head into the office. "I thought you'd still be here." His voice was a dagger. "I got a call from Cuddy."

House grunted.

"She's absolutely miserable. I'm going over to help her . . . unless you want to be a man and go instead. It's not too late to work things out."

House was too tired to come up with a sardonic retort. He sat in a stony silence until Wilson sighed, shook his head and traipsed off. "Send her my regards," House called hoarsely, but the only sounds he heard were the swishing of his glass door and the methodical drumming of his heart

**8**

Cameron wondered if this was how women ended up as crazy cat ladies. Caring for a dozen feline friends was bound to be more interesting than staring at the opening paragraph of Turgenev's _Fathers and Sons _and trying to get her brain to unscramble the jumbled words. Granted, the paragraph was exceedingly dull, but she didn't know what else to read. She rarely watched television. Soaps reminded her of her own personal drama, and medical shows made her laugh at the inaccuracies. Cameron was debating whether she should retire for the evening or stay up rereading the same sentence for the next hour, when she was interrupted by an incessant rapping on her door. A sense of _de ja vu_ seized her. She recognized that knock.

Nervousness was etched on his face, and he clutched his cane with a vise-like grip, his knuckle white from the pressure.

"What do you want, House?" she asked.

"What I want is for the last several hours to be erased, but seeing as that's not going to happen. . ." He tried to force his way in, but she kept a firm hold on the door, barring entry.

"I'm not sorry for what I did."

"Well, good. Glad I wasn't looking for an apology."

"Then what do you want?" She stressed each word.

House examined the doorknob, as if it was the most intriguing object in the galaxy. "Cuddy broke up with me, Wilson hates me . . . again. My team thinks my life is nothing more than gossip fodder. I have nowhere to go—"

"What about your apartment?"

"I think when I moved in with Cuddy I left some dirty dishes in the sink. So I'm a little afraid to go home and assess the damage."

"House." There was so much conveyed in that little word: exasperation, sympathy . . . desire. As she felt her cheeks flush under his gaze, Cameron involuntarily recoiled. She wouldn't do this. She wouldn't open up to him again. She couldn't. Could she? "You can't stay here." Her green eyes were pleading.

"Why not?"

Cameron let the crack in the door widen. "What will people think? You and Cuddy just broke up after I gave her some well-meaning advice . . . They'll jump to conclusions."

"They'll say you did this on purpose. That you're still in love with me."

She bowed her head in acquiesce. "I can't let that happen."

"Well, no one needs to know you're my rebound girl."

"House—"

"You really gonna send me home at one in the morning? I might fall asleep at the wheel."

"House—"

"Besides, I lost my keys."

"You did not."

House pulled his keys out of his pocket and tossed them over her head into her apartment. With an irritating clatter, they scuttled under her sofa. "Now I did."

Cameron felt her lips break into a hint of a smile. She let him in.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3: Small Talk

**Thanks to all who read, reviewed, and/or favorited the first two chapters. Sorry for the delay. I was sidetracked by a family emergency.  
**

House was always surprised by the sterility of her apartment. Not a thing out of place, not a dish in the sink, and not a cutesy knickknack in sight—and yet the place still retained its femininity and its sense of welcome. House collapsed onto her sofa, disturbing the paperback that had been carelessly left on the cushions.

He grabbed the book just before it hit the floor. "Turgenev, eh? Any good?" What the hell was he saying? He sucked at small talk.

"It's my third time reading it."

House pointed accusingly at her with the paperback. "You need to buy some more books."

"You never reread anything?"

"Medical journals, maybe . . . . articles I've written—"

"That explains so much." She seated herself in a cozy chair a few feet away from the couch.

"Sarcasm does wonders for you."

"I learned from the Master."

Just as abruptly as their biting repartee had begun, it ended. Cameron played with an imaginary piece of fuzz on the arm of her chair. With her head bent, her bangs fell into her eyes, and House had to fight the irresistible urge to swipe them behind her ear. Cameron wondered when the silence between them would stop being so awkward. As if reading her mind, House tried the small talk again.

"So what's it about? The book, I mean. I wasn't trying to be profound."

Cameron tilted her head to the side and, with an impish smile, replied, "It's about Bazarov, a sardonic, cynical doctor whose arrogance alienates him from everybody around him, except for his one faithful friend, who though smart in his own way, is often a doormat. Bazarov is quite happy pursuing knowledge until he falls in love."

House snorted. "So the woman he loves saves him from his misery, and they live happily ever after, right?"

"No. She rejects him, and he dies." She rose and went into the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

It took a moment for House to find his voice. "I'm an annoying intruder, not a guest, remember?"

"Just the same, would you like something to drink?"

House shrugged, nonplussed. "Whatever you want to do." Cameron never ceased to confuse him. How could someone so young—well, not young in the he-was-a-creepy-pedophile-for-lusting-after-her sense—have so many layers to peel back? "Do you like being depressed?"

Cameron popped her head back into the room, a jar of tea leaves in her hand. "Actually, Chamomile tea is supposed to be very soothing for you."

"Not the tea. The book." He tossed it onto the coffee table for emphasis.

Cameron played with the jar lid. "It's not depressing. It's realistic." Her brow furrowed, as she put all of her concentration into staring at her container of tea. "I know I used to come across as the type of girl who believed in fairy tales, but I don't need a happy ending anymore."

"Huh."

Cameron glanced askance to see House gazing at her thoughtfully and maybe even admiringly. "Well, I'll make us some tea, and then you can go home."

As Cameron prepared the tea, House slowly bent forward over his knees, trying to get a good look under the sofa. His eyes searched the darkness until they rested on his car keys, coated with cobwebs and dust. Making certain Cameron was still occupied in the kitchen, he used his cane to fish them out and pocketed them. Rising carefully, he surveyed the room until his eyes came to rest on her bookcase. There was an empty spot on one shelf where Turgenev used to sit. House smirked and stepped over to the case. With calculated movements, he stuffed his keys into the space and then by slightly rearranging the books, covered them up.

When Cameron reentered with a pot of tea, House was lazing on her sofa again, his feet on the coffee table inches away from her copy of Fathers and Sons. "Did you look for your keys?" she asked as she handed him a hot cup.

"You wanted me to get down on my hands and knees in this condition?" he asked, nodding at his leg.

She rolled her eyes and, setting the tray on the table, bent down. House's smirk returned as she rummaged around under the couch. "Where are they?" she muttered. "I swore this is where you threw them." Cameron glanced up, her expression one of annoyance. "Your keys are not under there."

"You just didn't see them." He spoke as if addressing a child of five who, after staying up past midnight Christmas Eve, wonders why she didn't spot Santa Claus and the reindeer on the roof.

"I searched every corner!" Cameron protested.

House heaved a huge, melodramatic sigh. "You're just trying to keep me from leaving. I understand. Now that I'm back on the market, I'm irresistible."

"I don't want you here, you ass. I'm telling you, the keys are missing." Arms crossed, Cameron slumped into a chair, obviously sulking.

"I guess I can call my friends to bring me my spare set of keys . . ." House feigned a look of realization and hit his forehead with his open palm. "Oh wait! I don't have any friends. Maybe I can call my landlord to let me in. Of course, it is one-thirty in the morning, so he might be a little pissed if I awoke him just to tell him—"

"All right, you can stay." Cameron stomped into her bedroom and then stomped back a few minutes later with a blanket and a pillow. She tossed both of the objects at his head, but only the pillow hit its target.

House fixed her with a mocking smile. "Such inhospitality! If this is what you do to your guests, I'm not sure I want to stay."

"One, you are an intruder, not a guest, remember? And B, you know where the door is."

"Two."

Cameron stared at him blankly. "What?"

"Two comes after one, not the letter B. They teach you that in first grade, sometimes even in kindergarten, if the teacher is really ambitious."

Cameron felt her heart quickening with anger and with something she would never admit to: hormones. Being in the same room with him, inhaling his scent of aftershave, leather and antiseptic, still made her weak in the knees. How stupid was she? She thought she had rid herself of this schoolgirl crush.

He arranged the blanket and pillow to his liking complete with a hospital corner. Once he had smoothed the cushions, he resituated himself on the couch and smiled superciliously at her, as if he was a king on his throne.

"Comfy?"

"Not quite." He grabbed his cup of tea. "Now I am." He took a sip and considered her standing over him, hands on her hips, eyebrows arched, her mouth fighting the desire to smile. "This is good, by the way."

Cameron picked up her now lukewarm cup and settled next to him. "I like drinking it on nights like this. It helps me sleep."

House stretched his neck, so he could look at her. "You get insomnia often?"

"Only when irritating doctors come knocking at my door."

"Ha. Ha."

She absently traced the rim of her teacup. "Seriously, though, I've been having a lot of trouble falling asleep lately. Too much stress, I'm sure."

"That's probable. You got a new job, broke up with a boyfriend—changes like that can mess with our system." He was such a nerd. Sitting there, discussing medicine, his whole face was lit up. She had always liked him best when he was solving a medical mystery case, and now she knew why. It was the only time he was happy.

Cameron set her cup back down on the table and when she turned back toward House, their faces were inches apart. She wondered when they had gotten so close. She cleared her throat nervously. "So . . ." She let the sentence hang in the air, inviting any sort of response.

House leaned even closer if possible, and despite all her self control, her heart hammered and her cheeks flushed. Cameron's eyes fluttered shut of their own accord, anticipating the kiss before her brain even did. A few seconds passed, and when she opened her eyes she saw House, clearly amused, pouring himself another cup of tea. She fought to overcome her mortification. Of course, he was just playing with her emotions, trying to prove that she wasn't over him. She didn't have to put up with this crap.

"I'm going to bed," she declared. House gave her the obligatory, "good night," and she practically ran to her room, slamming the door behind her.

House took a last swig of tea, shut off the lights, and lay back on the sofa. After the startling revelation that Cameron was a multi-faceted woman, it was comforting to know she was still predictable when it came to her feelings for him. She could deny her feelings all she wanted, but she was never going to fool anyone but herself. She hadn't even been able to fool the imbecilic wombat. Chase had finally caught on that there was no one who could hold her captivated as much as House.

Remembering his own break-up, House turned on his side with a scowl. He thought Cuddy had been charmed by his acerbic wit and intelligence, but apparently not. Evidently there was only one woman at Princeton Plainsboro who thought the world of him, and she was in serious denial. This discovery didn't do his ego any good. House groaned and rubbed his eyes, as if trying to remove the vision of Cuddy screaming at him.

What was he doing here? Was he trying to prove his point about Cameron? Was he trying to attain the unattainable as Foreman said? Or was he just old, depressed and alone and looking for a friend? House didn't know, nor did he care. He was too tired to ponder heavy questions. He rolled onto his back and took what the yoga/mediation crowd would call "a deep cleansing breath." His last conscious thought had something to do with relationships versus medical cases and whether Bazarov had ever been as fed up with humanity as he was.


	4. Chapter 4: The Morning After

House couldn't remember the last time he woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of pattering feet. Probably when Wilson had been living with him. Cuddy had never made coffee before leaving for work. Her method had been to slap House on the arm to rouse him and then bumble off to the shower, half-asleep. It didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out which method House preferred.

He pried open his eyes and spotted Cameron in a terry-cloth bathrobe, her hair, still wet from her shower, piled up on her head in a messy bun. "Morning," she said cheerfully, the events from last night seemingly forgotten.

House mumbled a reply and rose stiffly, gingerly rubbing his back. "Your sofa needs to be reupholstered."

Cameron sagaciously ignored his comment. "Would you like some breakfast?" She held a carton of Egg Beaters in one hand and a spatula in the other.

"Fake eggs? Now I know how you stay so skinny."

"That and my treadmill." Cameron's eyes roamed to the apparatus in the corner of her apartment, dusty with neglect. "I haven't had much time to exercise lately."

"You look good." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'm sure every guy in the hospital wants to jump you." Satisfied that he had masked his compliment with an insult, House gimped into the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. "None of my new ducklings make coffee quite like you." As he slurped his beverage he made himself at home at her round kitchen table.

"There's no secret to good coffee. You stick in a filter, dump some grounds and press brew."

"Well, clearly my team was missing from home economics the day they taught that lesson."

He had paid her two compliments in a row. Cameron thought she might never recover. "What do you want in your omelet?" she asked.

"I told you I'm not eating that crap."

"It's made from egg whites!" she protested.

"Fine. I'll have whatever you're having." He watched her hurry about the kitchen, tripping on her blue robe several times. "I don't usually eat breakfast." He wasn't sure if this was a confession or another lousy attempt at small talk.

Cameron acknowledged his remark with a mischievous smile. "No wonder you're always so cranky."

"Couldn't have anything to do with the pain in my leg, could it?" He waited for her to lecture him on looking at the bright side of life, but she merely flipped the omelet and heaved an almost imperceptible sigh.

As she was staring intently at the solidifying eggs, he nonchalantly wandered into her living area and headed toward her bookshelf. He stopped short. Turgenev was back in his place, and House's keys were nowhere to be seen.

Cameron leaned on the kitchen's doorframe, jangling the keys. "Looking for these?"

"You . . . ? How did . . . ?

"I went to put my book away this morning, and look what I found." She approached him, a jaunt in her steps. "I wonder how they got there?"

House's jaw tensed, waiting for the appropriate scolding. Surely she wouldn't pass up two opportunities to lecture him! But Cameron seemed to be enjoying her teasing too much to bother with the mother bit. She opened his clenched fist and placed the keys gently in his palm. "You should take better care of your possessions," she said, her voice a mere wisp. Their eyes locked, and then . . .

"Omigosh, the eggs!" Cameron ran into the kitchen, her far-too-huge robe billowing out behind her. House caught a glimpse of a pink leg before the robe settled back down around her slender form. He realized his head was cocked at an odd angle, like a puppy looking for a doggy biscuit. He shook his head and pocketed his keys in his wrinkled pants.

"It's a bit brown on the one side, but it's still edible," Cameron called out. No response. "House?" She peeped into her living room and found her front door open and House and her copy of _Fathers and Sons_ nowhere to be seen.

**8**

"It's her brain," Foreman insisted. "It explains the dizziness, the loss of smell—"

"And the scratchy rash on her back?" Taub interrupted "Yeah, right."

"Rashes have been known to be a psychosomatic symptom of stress," Hadley interposed.

"And who wouldn't be stressed about losing their equilibrium and sense of smell?"

"Trust you to defend him," said Taub.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Thirteen demanded.

"Do we need a time out, kiddies?" House twirled the dry-erase marker around his fingers and fixed them with a mocking sneer. "Any other suggestions, besides the neurologist's stunning theory that it has something to do with her brain?"

Foreman rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, Kutner spoke up. "It's drugs."

"Oh, clever." House turned his mocking sneer onto the East-Indian.

"It explains the loss of smell, the dizziness, and the rash."

The three other ducklings looked resigned to this diagnosis, but House was not as easily swayed. "Do an MRI, just to prove you're wrong," he pointed at Foreman, "and then do a Tox Screen just to prove you're wrong," he switched his finger to Kutner. He stormed out of his office, clearly irritated.

"Where are you going?" Kutner asked.

"Away from you idiots," House yelled over his shoulder.

He limped into the ER, his eyes scanning the mass of humanity for one specific doctor. He spotted her, perusing a chart with complete concentration by the bedside of one particularly vociferous patient. House crossed the room, shouting over the din, "I have a patient in her mid-thirties: vertigo, rash, loss of smell. On your mark, get set, diagnose."

Cameron glared at him before setting the chart next to the bed. "Don't you have a team to do that job?"

"Apparently they're morons."

"You hired them."

"I plead insanity, your Honor." They walked in tandem; House a few steps back watching Cameron do her job thoroughly yet dispassionately.

At one of the curtained stations she told a young woman in spandex, "You have a mild sprained ankle. I'm getting a nurse to wrap it up and ice it, and you'll be all set." To the patient in the next bed, she said, "You need a few stitches."

The young man clutched his hand, his pointer finger bleeding profusely through the cloth the nurse had applied. "Like, bummer! Will I be able to play the guitar again?"

Before she could respond, House interjected, "If I were you, I'd consider a new career."

The young man looked appalled and protectively brought his hand to his chest, smearing blood on his black tee-shirt. "Dude! Is it that serious?"

"No," House truthfully replied. "I'm just pretty sure your music sucks. The whole 'I'm a tripped out punk rocker' is soooo last decade." Cameron grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him away from the bemused patient. House noticed that the level of physical contact between the two of them had grown in the last year. He wondered if Cameron was getting friendlier with him or friendlier with him. Either prospect was disconcerting. He didn't know if he wanted a female friend, especially if it meant she was no longer interested in him. That would be a major blow to his highly-inflated ego. On the other hand, he didn't think he could handle any romantic entanglements with the beautiful Doctor Cameron. Not at this moment, anyways. Not right after Cuddy.

"If I give you a diagnosis, will you go away?" she asked tersely. House smiled pseudo-sweetly in assent. "Drugs," she suggested.

"You're not even trying," he protested.

A nurse walked by them and handed Cameron a bouquet of roses. She tucked them under her arm and continued scribbling on the punk rocker's chart. "How about pregnancy? Hormone levels went through the roof, caused an adverse reaction and—"

"Boooor—riiing," House said in a sing-song voice. He suddenly registered the flowers. "You get gifts from your patients? For what? Pulling a splinter out of someone's foot?"

"They're from Chase." She averted his gaze. "He's trying to win me back."

A painful, prickly sensation akin to heartburn wound its way up his esophagus and into his throat, constricting his breath. Without a pause in her steps, Cameron tossed the flowers into a nearby trash receptacle, and House felt the sensation subside. She called out a few instructions to the surrounding staff and then turned her full attention to House.

"Did you finish it yet?"

House decided to play dumb. "Finish what?"

"The book you stole from me. It's been three weeks, and I'd like it back."

"I wouldn't be much of a thief if I returned it."

"House," she warily began.

"Are you sure you want it back? I got some pretty nasty drool on it from the last time I attempted to read it."

Cameron tried to look annoyed, but she could tell from the grin on his face that she was failing. "The book's not that bad."

"But you admit it's not that good."

"The ending leaves much to be desired, but I wouldn't—"

"Then why do you want it back so badly?"

"Because I was reading it." She said it like it was the most obvious explanation in the world.

"You were rereading a book you don't even like?"

"I haven't made up my mind whether I like it or not. Sometimes it takes me three or four times before I arrive at a conclusion. That's why I was reading it again."

"And once you make up your mind, you'll either discard the book or place it back on the shelf next to Dostoevsky and Tolstoy."

Cameron smiled, relieved he understood her logic. "Exactly."

"I take it this is the same method you used on Chase." His tone was casual except for a hint of malice, which would have been unnoticeable to a stranger.

Cameron felt the full ramifications of his slight. "Shouldn't you be attending to your patient?" she icily asked.

He didn't see her again for another two days.


	5. Chapter 5: Second Chances

**O****nce again, a heartfelt _thank you _to all of you who have read and reviewed my story. Feedback is the bread and butter of us writers, and your comments have not gone unnoticed. :)**

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He didn't see her again for another two days, by which time he had cured his patient of "rare malady #400," as Kutner had called it. She and Wilson were talking amicably in the halls, when, as if on cue, they broke into simultaneous laughter. House felt his heartburn return with a vengeance as she reached down and gave Wilson's arm a squeeze. They noticed him leaning against the wall, glowering, at the exact same moment. With exchanges of pleasantries, they went their separate ways, and House had only a brief second to decide whom to stalk. He chose his good ol' buddy Wilson.

"You can run, but you can't hide!" he shouted to the receding figure of his former friend.

Wilson paused, deliberating his options, which gave House enough time to catch up. "Did you apologize to Cuddy, yet?" Wilson's fuzzy eyebrows were scrunched together, presumably to threaten House, but it only made him scoff.

"Will _we_ be friends again if I do?"

"It isn't a bargaining chip," Wilson snapped. "You owe her that much."

"Last time I checked, _she_ was the one who dumped _me_."

"Well, it didn't take long for you to find a rebound girl." Wilson's gaze was directed at the place where Cameron had formerly stood.

House gritted his teeth. "What did Cameron tell you?"

"Nothing." Wilson's tone became gentler, almost sheepish. "I noticed you reading _Fathers and Sons_ in the cafeteria and I wondered what insane force had driven you to pick up classic literature. So I snooped and—"

"Discovered that the book belonged to Cameron," House finished. He sighed and shook his head. "Not that this is any of your business, seeing as we're no longer on speaking terms, but Cameron and I are just friends." Friends? When had they become friends?

"Don't be ridiculous. You don't have any friends, especially of the female variety."

House conceded to this fact with a stony silence.

Perhaps feeling the slightest bit sorry for him, Wilson added, "I suppose it's never too late to make new friends—even for you. Cameron's a good choice. She was there for me when no one else was."

House was going to mention that Wilson was the fool who broke off ties with everyone else after Amber had died, but he decided not to open that wound again.

"Is the book any good?"

"The protagonist's an imbecile."

"You must relate so much." Before House could retaliate with an equally insulting remark, Wilson continued with a slight smile, "Why don't you tell me all about it at lunch?"

He was forgiven. Just like that. At least it had been easy and painless. House wondered if he had a chance to make it up to Cameron—not that he had done anything wrong. But apparently in civil societies a guy had to apologize for being himself.

Cameron managed to avoid him for the rest of the week. The next Monday, while she was eating lunch in the cafeteria with Cuddy, House was finally able to approach her. Cuddy was not her first choice for a lunch buddy. Though she had respect for the Dean of Medicine, Cameron found her far too serious, and ever since her break-up with House, Cuddy had chosen Cameron as her sounding board to voice all her complaints against the genius curmudgeon, which made her about as upbeat and lively as a funeral. But Cameron couldn't begrudge her. The pain she felt was real, and Cameron herself knew far too well what a debilitating effect House could have on a person.

He bombarded them at their table before either one was prepared. "I hope you ladies weren't talking about me," he teased.

"Don't flatter yourself," Cuddy snipped. Her eyes were cast down in a deliberate attempt to avert his gaze.

Cameron felt nothing but sympathy for her companion. At this moment, with his observant blue eyes reading their every gesture and inflection, she felt especially vulnerable. She couldn't imagine what it must be like for the woman who had dated him. Feigning complete composure, she fixed him with her most piercing stare. "Actually, we were talking about my cousin. She works at an adoption agency, and I agreed to give Cuddy some info about the organization over a salad and a sandwich."

"How noble of you, but I'm afraid it's a fruitless endeavor." He glared at the side of Cuddy's head. "Dr. Cuddy just wasn't meant to be a mom." Cuddy winced but stared straight ahead past Cameron's ear.

Cameron scowled in disapproval. "House, shut up."

He wasn't doing a very good job apologizing. He tried to backtrack in his awkward way. "I'm just saying that fate, or whatever, seems to be against it. She couldn't get pregnant, and the baby she was going to adopt was viciously snatched away from her by its birth mother." Cameron's frown didn't lessen, and House felt himself sinking deeper into a hole of quicksand. He had only one means of escape. He tossed _Fathers and Sons_ into the middle of their meal, spattering salad dressing in all directions.

"Hey! Watch it," Cuddy muttered, brushing vinaigrette off her blouse.

House ignored her and addressed Cameron. "You were right. The ending sucks."

Cameron smiled despite herself. "That's not exactly what I said."

"Tom-ay-to, Tom-ah-to."

There was an uncomfortable pause, followed by the maledictions of Cuddy as she rubbed at the oil stain on her silk shirt. House inclined his head, his face unreadable, but Cameron understood what he wanted.

"Thank you for returning my book." She hoped he would translate her message as "you're an ass, but I forgive you."

House smiled, comprehending the meaning. "Well, I wasn't going to keep it—not after that horrible ending." Turning to Lisa, he added, "And Cuddy." Once he was sure she was actually looking at him and not her plate, he made his face appear as remorseful as possible. "I'm sorry about staining your shirt . . . but it was too low-cut for the office."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. House and his cane limped off. Cameron suddenly had a voracious appetite, which her companion noted with some perturbation, but instead of commenting on it, she merely asked, "Did you and House form a book club or something?"

Cameron laughed nervously. "Of course not. He just borrowed—actually, stole—the book from me a couple of weeks ago." She wisely didn't mention that he'd borrowed it from her the day of their break-up.

"So you two are really friends now?"

Cameron shrugged, trying to hide her pleasure at the thought. "I guess."

Cuddy pushed her salad around her plate. "Well . . . good. He needs more friends than just Wilson."

Cameron leaned forward until her hair was almost in her food. "It's not too late to make up things with House."

"Why should I want to?"

"Because, he's still your friend, even if things didn't work out romantically between you two."

Cuddy threw her fork down and fixed Cameron with a challenging gaze. "Why do you want us to patch things up? What's in it for you?"

"It will make House happy," she said, the last remains of her naiveté completely obvious.

"House can't be happy. I think it goes against his genetic code."

"Please, Cuddy. House is lonely." She cast her eyes down on her lap. "I'm sure that's the only reason he's been semi-friendly to me lately." Her face was as open as the copy of _Fathers and Sons_ sprawled on their table.

Cuddy nodded in understanding. "I'll try, but you've got to promise me something."

"What?"

"Tell him how you feel."

Eyes round with surprise, Cameron jerked her head up. "I can't," she blurted.

Cuddy made a disparaging noise in her throat. "Why not? If I can risk my dignity in order to be friends with him, why can't you tell him you're still in love with him?"

"Because . . ." Cameron fought to control her raging emotions. Why did she have to wear her feelings on her sleeve? No one was supposed to know she still loved House. She wasn't supposed to be this exposed—this helpless and hopeless.

"Because why?" cajoled Cuddy, using her best bedside manner.

"Because, we had our chance, and it passed us by." Her green eyes filled with sorrow. "Now it's too late."


	6. Chapter 6: Mutual Understanding

Try as she might to ignore Cameron's urging to make up with House, Cuddy found her conscience riddle with guilt over the next couple of days every time she spotted him in the corridors and ducked a corner to avoid him. It was only after Wilson shamed her for breaking her promise to Cameron that she chucked her reticence out the window and spoke to House.

"House, can I talk to you for a moment?" Cuddy marched authoritatively toward the doctor, who had recently given instructions to his team and was still parked outside the consultation room.

"Gee, I don't know." He pretended to be confused. "Considering you only said two words to me in a month and those two words are far too unsavory to repeat in civilized company—"

"House," she warned him through gritted teeth. Her tone softened. "I want you to know I'm no longer angry at you."

"Hurray! I'm sooooo glad you don't hate my guts anymore." He clutched his chest and batted his eyes as if blinking back tears of joy. "I can finally sleep at night."

"Oh, I still hate your guts. I just not mad at you, and I don't blame you for our break up."

"Am I supposed to thank you for that blanketed insult?"

"In time," she spoke loudly over his irritated question, "my hatred will dissipate and I will be back to liking you again. I just wonder if it's too late to save our friendship."

House evaluated her. Her grey eyes were definitely sincere and her slight smile was hopeful. "You're pathetic," he snarled. "You don't want to be friends with me. This sudden need to make up has _Cameron_ written all over it. Why can't she mind her own damn business? First she succeeds in breaking us up, and now she wants us to be bosom buddies."

"No one's putting a gun to my head. I'm doing this because I want to. Yes, Cameron suggested it—"

"Yes, you're a mindless sheep."

She threw her hands up in disgust. "Why do I even bother? If you don't want to be friends with me, fine. We'll maintain a strictly employer/employee relationship, but don't expect your boss to bail you out the next time you piss off a patient."

House grinned. This was the Cuddy he remembered: the smart, assertive woman who didn't put up with his crap—the one he was proud to call a friend.

"Why are you smiling?" Cuddy sighed in exasperation, but the corners of her mouth were upturned. "You're incorrigible." The last remnant of the unendurable tension that had been wedged between them evaporated.

"You wouldn't have it any other way," he smugly replied. "I'm what keeps your hospital running."

Cuddy started back to her office but hesitated halfway and pivoted. "By the way, you owe me a month of clinic duty."

"See what happens when you stop speaking to me? There's no one to keep me in my place."

She glanced left and right to ascertain that there were no eavesdroppers. "You should thank Cameron."

"For bringing the dictator back to power? That wouldn't be very patriotic of me."

"She saved a friendship."

"Which wouldn't have been broken if she hadn't pried," he persisted.

Her arms crossed, Cuddy took a "I'm the boss; fear me" stance. "She's done a lot of good for you."

House looked like a petulant child. "In what way?"

"You're trying to tell me she hasn't influenced you at all?"

House thought of the hours he spent reading _Fathers and Sons_ instead of watching his favorite monster truck mash the competition to pulp. He thought of his irrepressible desire to apologize to Cameron for God knows what offense. She'd changed him—slowly, maybe insignificantly, but he was different. Oh. Crap.

He called Cameron's cell later that night. "Cuddy and I kissed and made up—figuratively, of course. She no longer finds my lips hot and tempting."

"How did you get this number?" she demanded, though the only reason she was irritated was minor and petty: he'd interrupted her dinner.

"You're not so smart this evening, are you? Since I'm on speaking terms with Cuddy, I once again have an all access pass to her filing cabinets."

"You stole top secret information?"

"Oh, _very_ top secret," he agreed, tongue planted firmly in cheek. "Your file also lists your measurements. Thirty-four B, really? Isn't that being a bit generous?"

His jab made her feel ashamed, even though she had never considered her measurements to be inadequacies before. She sagely changed the topic. "If you've called to thank me, you're welcome."

"Who says I'm grateful for anything?" He was clearly on the defensive, embarrassed that he'd been found out.

"You are." There was not a hint of conceit in her voice, though reading House's thoughts would have given her the right to brag.

"How can you tell? I'm not even in the same room as you."

"I just know."

House heard a click, and then the dial tone was reverberating in his left ear. She _knew_, and that scared him more than her influence over him.

**88**

House soon found that despite whatever positive or negative effect Cameron had on him, he was drawn to her. Just like with his Vicodin, he was addicted. If they had been merely colleagues from work and hadn't shared a passionate kiss and exchanged repartee and glances that could be mistaken as foreplay, Cameron would have considered his sudden pursuit of her as stalkerish. Instead, she relished the "accidental" meetings in the cafeteria and the locker room where he conveniently stored his leather jacket now. Perhaps these meetings were actually coincidences—perhaps she was reading too much into it —but that didn't diminish the excitement she felt every time he went out of his way to talk to her. She realized she shouldn't have gotten her hopes up. After all, this delicate dance of give and take, of opening up and putting up walls, was not entirely different from the game they had played when she was his duckling. Nothing had changed, except _he_ was now pursuing _her_, and it was this knowledge that dared her to hope.

And yet, there was a corner of her heart that didn't want to risk the inevitable hurt and disappointment. She knew of his propensity to pursue that which he couldn't attain—except she was making it extremely easy for him. He was the lion, and she was the stupid and cumbersome water buffalo, waiting patiently to be devoured and spit back out in little fragments. She feared her time with him was running short. She could coexist with him only so long before he got hungry.

So the tug of war continued. When she pulled, he pushed. When she was open, he was closed. Their timing was impeccable, the dance flawless.

He came to her apartment one evening, clearly intoxicated, but not so drunk that she feared for his blood alcohol count—the sort of tipsy her favorite uncle got at family gatherings, and he was the life of the party. "Can I come in?" He was leaning all of his weight on her doorframe and trying desperately not to slur.

"It's three in the morning." If she hadn't been so concerned for his well being, most importantly, how the hell he had drive in his condition, she would have been livid with him for interrupting her REM.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Clearly, the liquor didn't help any."

"Wilson told me that Proust was a good sedative for the insomniac." He peered into her dark apartment. "I thought you might have something by him that I could borrow."

"You don't read classic literature in hopes you fall asleep." She was appalled that Wilson had even suggested it.

"Some people do," he retorted as he stumbled in, almost knocking over the only lamp that it was on.

"You know, they've invented this public facility where you can take out books for free. It's called a library." She grabbed his arms and steadied him.

"Don't be stupid. Libraries aren't open at this hour." House smirked playfully at her and allowed her to shove him into a chair, the pressure of her hands sending scintillations through his body.

She turned on another light amidst his protestations and scoured her book shelf for a volume by the French writer. She found Proust nestled between a Harlequin romance novel (a gift from her mom) and Henry James (a memento of her college days). Cameron pondered her odd filing system and tossed the book into his lap. "Good luck understanding the stream of consciousness." She switched off the one lamp. "I'll go get a blanket and pillow for you."

"No need." He blundered to his feet. "I'm perfectly capable of driving. I got here, didn't I?"

"You're drunk," she said firmly.

"I'm tipsy," he argued. "When I'm drunk I see double. Now which door is the real one?"

Cameron glared, not amused.

"That was a poor joke, I admit." He headed toward the exit, but Cameron crossed to the front door first and blocked his way.

House sighed. "This is right out my dream."

Cameron was perplexed. This was not the speech of a sober man. "What are you talking about?"

"When I was shot, I had this dream where you forbade me to leave my hospital bed, and when I didn't listen, you followed me, trying your pathetic best to block my path."

"What did fantasy House do then?" she asked softly. He had never mentioned the shooting before. The alcohol was affecting him more than he realized, freeing him of what few inhibitions he normally had.

"I threatened to use physical violence if you didn't get out of my way." He was so close to her, his soured breath brushed against her cheek.

She blanched but remained where she was. They stood frozen, only their eyes moved back and forth, searching the other's face. House put a hand on her waist, and she stiffened at the unfamiliar gesture. The cynical side of her feared he would follow through with his threat, but House only swallowed a few times before gently moving her body away from the door.

He doddered down the hall, but he didn't feel the pain in his injured leg. His head was detached from the rest of his body and this lightheadedness had nothing to do with the liquor he had consumed. He clenched his hand, still warm from the heat of Cameron's slender waist.

Cameron called him at 5:00 to make sure he had got home safely. He grumbled that she had awoken him from a sound slumber, but she felt he deserved nothing less. House wouldn't admit it, but he agreed.

**88**

The next week was painful for both of them. House lost a patient, and Cameron had an ugly confrontation with Chase in the doctor's lounge, which resulted in Cuddy calling in security to separate the volatile ex-lovers. Perhaps the biggest strain, though neither would admit it, was the reminder at every turn of how the other would have handled the given situation. House knew that Cameron would have forgone every protocol in order to keep the patient alive, rather than waste time trying to prove a harebrained diagnosis. And Cameron knew House wouldn't have let the little kangaroo corner him and make hurtful and salacious accusations about him. He would have kicked Chase's sorry ass.

Because of their lack of contact during the day, House sought her solicitude and solace after hours. Cameron was only vaguely annoyed when he pounded on her door at 11:00 pm.

"My patient died."

"I know."

"Foreman and Thirteen are quitting."

Cameron couldn't articulate her shock. She let him in, her mouth agape and her eyes wide.

"You look like a fish," he remarked, but the usual derision was absent from his voice.

She sank into a chair, her eyes never leaving his emotionless face. "Why are they leaving?"

"Apparently I'm a killjoy who's going to ruin their only chance at happiness." House paced back and forth from the couch to the kitchen doorway. "They're in love, and they think if they stay I'll do everything in my power to make them miserable. I can't blame them. I probably would give them hell."

"Chase gave his resignation today," Cameron said in way of a response.

"Figures," he snorted. He stopped his pacing and stared at her, his eyes penetrating her to her core. "So you're the only original Duckling left?"

"Yeah." Why was she trembling?

"Cameron, if you leave, I swear I'll—" He didn't finish, but he didn't need to. She understood.

**A/N: Clearly the irony is thick here. When I wrote this a year ago, I had no idea Cameron would be the one original duckling who was written off. Fate can be cruel.**


	7. Chapter 7: The Green Eyed Monster

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. My ISP has been giving me hell lately. Once again, I wish to acknowledge all the people who favourited/commented on the story. It was really touching to go into my email every day and find another person had added my story to their watching list. :)**

If the news of Foreman, Hadley and Chase's departure disturbed House, it was nothing compared to the knife in the gut that came several days later.

The hospital staff threw a farewell party for the three doctors, and House decided to come, not because he gave a rat's ass about his peers, but because the party featured free booze. He had just settled into a dimly lit corner with his Scotch and soda when Cuddy stepped into the center of the room, waxing poetically about Foreman, Thirteen and the Wombat. The partygoers laughed and applauded appreciatively as she told a cutesy little anecdote about each of the doctors. House rolled his eyes at the banality and took a swig.

He surveyed the room: Chase looked either bored or cross—he couldn't tell what the Aussie's frown indicated. Foreman had his arm around Hadley, and they were both blushing from false modesty. Wilson stood near Cuddy, clutching three small packages. Judging from the size and shape, House guessed the packages were plaques featuring some inane inscription on them like "World's Best Doctor."

Cuddy motioned to Wilson to distribute the gifts. "A token of our appreciation," she said, her eyes misting.

House spit out his drink. When had Cuddy become so attached to these cretins? Scowling, he turned away from the emotional scene, and his eyes rested on Cameron's lithe form. Her dark plum sweater hugged her body, accenting all the right places, and her black slacks were far too tight for the office. House wholeheartedly approved. She caught his gaze, and the wistful smile on her lips grew. House quickly looked back at his drink.

Cameron self-consciously brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She listened to Cuddy ramble awkwardly about Chase's merits—she heard the words, but she couldn't comprehend them. They floated around the space in her mind before disappearing into the void. All she could hear in her head were Chase's last words to her: "He doesn't love you. Get over it. Get over _him._" Seconds after yelling this at her in the doctors' lounge, the security guards had strongly suggested he leave. It had been moments later that he had trotted into Cuddy's office and resigned. Apparently while Cameron and he were still a couple, Chase had accepted a job at the Australian clinic at which his father had worked. So much for including her in his life—though, if she was totally honest, she would realize that she had never fully let him into her life either.

As Cuddy heaped her praise on Foreman, Cameron stole a look at Chase. She nodded encouragingly at him, but he glanced away without acknowledging the look. She didn't begrudge him anything. She was happy he was turning over a new leaf, facing his demons head on. It would be good for him. He'd forget her, hopefully—although she suspected she was his female House: the one love that never fully died.

After the tedious formalities were finished, Cameron enveloped each of the doctors in a tight hug. Even Chase relaxed a little in her grasp. "I'll miss you," she told them, and she honestly meant it.

Thirteen opened her gift, and House was actually impressed that it wasn't a plaque but a candid photo of her with a patient tastefully framed in sterling silver. Obviously Cuddy had put some thought into the presents. House was going to approach Wilson and make a derogatory comment about the party, but his friend was amiably chatting with Foreman. House turned his attention to Cuddy but it was evident that she was listening intently to everything Wilson was saying and ignoring the rest of the world. This didn't faze him too much. They always were attached at the hip, usually conspiring against him.

With his two friends preoccupied, House had three choices available: 1. He could wait until Wilson finished, meantime standing alone in the middle of the room looking like a loser. 2. He could leave the party, or 3. He could talk to Cameron as he waited. He had been doing the latter option a lot lately, but he didn't mind. Cameron had turned into quite the verbal opponent.

He approached her and noticed how her posture straightened and her green eyes gleamed. She was on the alert, ready for the first round of sparring.

"I'm surprised you came to this party, considering your history with Chase."

Cameron smirked. "_I'm_ surprised _you're_ here, considering you don't like any of these people."

"_Touche'._" House clinked glasses with her. "So why are you here anyway?"

"Why are you?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"Neither did you." She took a composed sip of her punch.

"I like to drink," he said simply. "What about you? You here to beg Chase to stay?" As he mentioned the Australian's name, his stomach clenched. Damn heartburn.

"No. I'm, here for closure."

House quirked an eyebrow.

"This is a chapter of my life that is ending," she explained. "I'm here to see it through."

"They'll be back." He was sincerely confident in his claim. "No other hospital will hire Foreman, so he'll be spending his time trying to find a cure for Huntington's. After Thirteen dies, he'll not only be out of a job, he'll be bored. So where else will he go but back to Cuddy's enabling arms?

"Chase, on the other hand, will quickly tire of working in the same clinic as the father he hated and will come back to Princeton in the hopes that his sweetheart has changed her mind about them."

Cameron vehemently shook he head. "If Chase comes back, it better not be for me."

House felt relief at her statement, but he made sure to keep his expression vapid and vague. "Good for you."

She couldn't tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. "I mean it," he added, as if he could read her mind. "You don't want to waste your time on a second-rate doctor."

"There's more to a man than his career."

"Don't be ridiculous. You can tell everything about a guy from his job. For example, a doctor with lousy bedside manner, who happens to misdiagnose his patients all the time, is either insensitive and stupid or candid and adventurous."

"Or he's a misanthropic son of a bitch who is too brilliant to get along with anyone else and doesn't care how many tests he runs as long as he gets the desired answers."

House blinked rapidly, determining that the insult was directed at him. "Apparently you know everything there is to know about me."

"And yet, you still know very little about me." It was an invitation, but House wasn't sure he wanted to accept it.

His eyes darted back and forth looking for the nearest escape route, and that's when the knife was plunged into his stomach—metaphorically, of course. The jab was swift and sudden and was thrown by his two best friends. The motion was so subtle that no one else noticed it—no one but Cameron. She saw him tense and followed his gaze to Wilson and Cuddy. They had just finished conversing with Foreman and Hadley when Wilson gently put an arm around Cuddy's waist and ushered her away to talk with the other doctors in the oncology department. The gesture lasted five seconds at the most, but to House those seconds were interminable. The motion was just so _intimate_. The knife twisted deeper, and the pain squeezed the air from his lungs and constricted his heart until he felt sure the muscle would implode from the pressure.

It wasn't just the fact that he resented their new-found happiness, or that he found it rather disturbing that his best friend was shagging (or about to shag) his ex-lover, or that he was peeved and slightly insulted that it had taken Cuddy merely a month to move on from him. No; what bothered him the most and sent this debilitating pain through his body was the discovery that his friends had moved on and had left him standing still, miles behind them. The three of them used to commiserate with each other in their misery, but now he was the only miserable one. And in his twisted mind, friends were supposed to be miserable together.

The pain in his stomach flared to an intolerable level as he watched Wilson lean toward Cuddy and whisper something in her ear that made her beam widely. What right had they to flaunt their relationship in front of him? House involuntarily growled. Cameron placed a consoling hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off and hurried from the room.

He hobbled down the halls blindly. Panic was washing over him. He had felt this pain before—every time Cameron had mentioned Chase—and it was only now, confronted with Wilson and Cuddy's relationship that he realized the discomfort he had been experiencing over the last couple of weeks was not heartburn but jealousy. And it was not the cute variety that every high school girl hopes her boyfriend will feel when she flirts with the captain of the football team. It was the green-eyed, all-consuming kind that Othello probably wished he had never exhibited.

House was accustomed to being a selfish, possessive bastard, but it was the significance of this particular envy that worried him. Why was he jealous of Cameron's relationship with the Wombat? House brushed aside the idea that his jealousy was romantically linked. After all, he was envious of Wilson and Cuddy, but he wasn't in love with them. But this revelation _did_ beg the question: when had Cameron become as important to him as Wilson? A small voice in the corner of his mind whisper, "Since the beginning," but clearly it was irrational and delusional. Surely if she had meant that much to him he would have realized it before now, right?

House fumbled in his pockets until he found his Vicodin. Just grasping the plastic bottle calmed his nerves. He took two pills for the pain.


	8. Chapter 8: Conversations and Confessions

**Thanks for all the lovely comments.**** Happy Holidays!**

For the next couple of days House tried to avoid Cameron, which wasn't hard to do since she spent most of her free time helping Chase and Foreman pack. But House soon discovered that shunning a person didn't keep him from thinking about them. Over the course of a week, incessant thoughts probed his brain at every waking moment—during clinic duty, his lunch hour and even during a consultation with his team. The fact that he couldn't concentrate on his medical mystery just proved his point: relationships were a nuisance. Emotions shouldn't take preeminence over medicine, and yet his were.

Try as hard as he could to ignore these thoughts, they kept coming to the forefront of his mind, impeding his doctoring abilities. When he said, "Cameron obstruction" instead of "coronary obstruction" he knew this obsession had to end. No relationship should cause him this much suffering—well, not unless it was worth it, like his friendship with Wilson. He missed Wilson and would have gone to him or Cuddy for advice on this Cameron issue if he hadn't been still angry at them both.

Now, because of his obstinacy he was alone. The gutted team did not count as company. Kutner and Taub were a feckless pair more passionate about mourning the loss of Foreman and Thirteen than about solving a case. With his options limited, it became apparent to House that he had to swallow his pride and forgive Wilson and Cuddy . . . but not before he made them accountable for their actions.

After sending his two minions off to perform a multitude of unnecessary tests, he put his devious plan into effect. He casually let it slip to the nurses in the clinic that he was planning to give his patient an illegal opiate for a cure. Just as he predicted, the nurses ratted him out to Cuddy, and she came storming toward his office minutes later.

Grinning mischievously, House stooped over his computer, and an eighties song began playing just as Cuddy entered. "Here she comes again . . . well she's my best friend's girl, she's my best friend's girl-irl, but she used to be mine," the singer crooned.

If Cuddy was surprised by the implicating lyrics, she hid it well. "What's this about giving the patient illegal drugs?" she demanded.

House blinked stupidly. "I don't know. I was only joking around with the nurses."

He pretended to be concerned. "Oh no! Did they actually believe what I said?"

Cuddy was not in the mood for his games. "What do you want House?"

"I want to know why you didn't tell me you were dating Wilson."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her expression blank.

"You're a poor liar," he yelled after her retreating form. House scowled and muttered imprecations. Cuddy was supposed to be the easy one to crack. Wilson would be a way tougher opponent. He had ways of manipulating and confusing House without even half trying. It wasn't fair.

Oh well, he just had to do his best. House would continue his scheme when Wilson stopped by his office later that evening. It was Thursday, which they had claimed for their male-bonding rituals; so Wilson would be coming by at 5:00 to take House to dinner.

At exactly 5:01pm, House started to play "My Best Friend's Girl" again. As if on

cue, Wilson entered the office amidst the peppy refrain. House grooved in his chair, and Wilson gave him a bemused look.

"Since when do you like the _Cars_?" asked Wilson.

"I am a man open to all forms and denominations of music."

Wilson seemed to accept this answer, for he launched into a completely different topic. "So I was thinking we'd go to Frank's for dinner, unless you were looking for some fancier cuisine, in which case there's always—"

House turned the music up louder, blocking out his friend's drone.

"Are you trying to send me subliminal messages?" Wilson shouted over the din, his bewildered expression quickly turning to one of amusement. House obligingly muted the song. "What was that all about?"

"Wow. You're not so clever for a backstabbing thief."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know." They stared at each other, challenging the other to speak first.

Wilson finally sighed in defeat and slumped into House's easy chair. "All right, I admit it. I stole your sandwich from the community fridge and ate it for lunch."

"I don't pack my own lunches!"

"Then whose sandwich did I steal?"

"_Wilson_," House whined.

"_House_," mimicked his friend.

In full confrontational mode, House moved from his swivel chair to the front of his desk where he perched on the edge. He towered over Wilson in what he hoped was a menacing stance. "You couldn't wait to date Cuddy, could you? You've always had the hots for her. I bet you were planning to take her away from me the entire time we were dating."

"If you can call what you two did 'dating,'" Wilson retorted with a hint of malice. House's glare would have put a gorgon to shame. "I didn't mean for it to happen that way," Wilson said in way of an apology.

House scoffed. "Oh sure."

"No really." Wilson insistence was almost charming. "When I casually commented that I had always had feelings for her, I had no intention of making her change her mind about you. I just . . .couldn't restrain myself. It was a moment of weakness. I didn't want to betray you."

House crossed his arms. "This is even better than I thought."

Wilson's face was flushed and he rose from his chair, clearly agitated. "And then when she started coming to me after every fight you two had—which was about every other day, mind you." He shook his head, his agitation growing. "I told her flat out to break it up with you. I told her you weren't worth the pain and aggravation. She deserved better."

"Thanks for sticking up for me, buddy," said House caustically.

Wilson rounded on House. "I told her the truth. Cuddy was in denial at first. That should please your ego. She swore that she could change you. You weren't that bad. Your arguments were due to petty misunderstandings. All that bull.

"But I persisted. I told her if a guy was making her cry that much, he wasn't worthy of her time." He paused and simpered like an idiot. "And then I got through to her. She admitted it wasn't working out, and about a week later, you two broke up."

House's head was reeling. "Wait a minute. She told you a week before our breakup that it was over with? What about Cameron? Where does she figure in?"

Confusion was written all over Wilson's boyish countenance. "What are you blathering about?"

He was gaping, he knew it, but he couldn't control the alarm and mystification that was seizing his brain and turning it to mush. "She was the one who persuaded Cuddy to call it off with me. Not you."

"When did she do that?"

"The day of our break-up."

Wilson shook his head. "She might have said something to Cuddy, but Cuddy was pretty much resolved by then. She was just waiting for an opening."

"Which Cameron provided for her," House finished. Relief flooded his body, and he unconsciously wiped a hand across his perspiring forehead. He wasn't wrong. Cameron was partially to blame for his and Cuddy's split. The world wasn't on its head.

Wilson peered at him curiously. "Why are you determined to link Cameron to your breakup?"

House wondered why his office seemed so confined all of the sudden. He wasn't developing claustrophobia was he? That would be terribly inconvenient, considering the puny size of his apartment. He'd have to find a new place to live and—

"Earth to House." Wilson noticed that his friend was wearing his "deer in the headlights" face: his eyes wide and frightened, and his body rigid, anticipating the first blow. "Oh, I see. You want Cameron to be responsible, because that means she still has feelings for you. If she hadn't meddled, that would mean she's over you."

House's mouth was dry. He was sure it was from the Vicodin he had swallowed a few minutes before Wilson's arrival. "That's not it," he croaked. "Cameron said she was over me."

"But you didn't believe her." House wished to high heaven that Wilson would remove the supercilious tenor from his voice. "This is perfect! You screwed Cuddy, yet you love Cameron."

"I DON'T—" House began shouting. He lowered the volume when Wilson jumped back a few feet. "I don't love her."

Wilson continued with his smug behavior, this time smirking as he spoke. "You can convince yourself, House, but you can't fool me."

House's breath came in short, frustrated puffs. "I don't feel much like dinner. Why don't you go on by yourself?"

"Don't sulk."

"What do you expect? Accusing me of such a stupid—"

"Why is love stupid?"

"Because," House fumbled for the words, "love doesn't allow for errors."

"On the contrary, love prevails through errors." Wilson's brown eyes were practically sparkling with love, perhaps illustrating the point. The sick bastard.

"I'm not going to listen to your pathetic preaching. If love is so great, why did Cuddy leave me the minute she discovered I had kissed Cameron?"

"You kissed Cameron?"

"ARGH!" House flailed his arms, not sure whether to strangle or slap Wilson.

Wilson evidently felt his friend's irritation, for he didn't press the issue of the kiss.

"Cuddy and I didn't start dating until two weeks ago. After you started hanging out with Cameron, as a matter of fact," he added. "We figured you had moved on." He lightly slapped House on the shoulder. "Sorry if we were mistaken."

House was vaguely suspicious that Wilson had dismissed the Cameron situation so quickly, but he was also grateful. He just hoped this wasn't one of those annoying reverse-psychology tricks. He wasn't in love with Cameron, and no amount of needling or deception would prove otherwise.

Despite his resolve on the matter, he couldn't stop thinking of her. And the next time their eyes locked for an instant in the hallways, a quiver shot through him that petrified him to such a degree that he couldn't think or speak for several minutes afterwards. He was afraid what this sensation might mean. Even worse, he was afraid _she_ hadn't felt anything.


	9. Chapter 9: Trouble

**Happy Christmas to all my faithful readers!**

Cameron and House had shared many sexually charged glances before, but none of them had ever resembled the one he gave her in that corridor. The look was full of passion and surprise, like the time he had seen her in her little red dress, and of vulnerability and fear that she could see through his transparency, like the time she had promised to return to the hospital if he went on a date with her.

Cameron was annoyed at her sudden dizziness as she relived the moment in her head over and over again. Such a brief space of time, and yet the repercussions lasted throughout the hours, haunting her—causing her heart to thunder and her breath to tremble. This was either a panic attack or something much worse: a reminder of her unrequited feelings for House. Perhaps she wasn't as different from her former self as she had imagined. Perhaps that eager to please, compassionate to a fault, demonstrative girl, who was foolishly convinced of her amazing healing powers, still existed somewhere in her psyche. She thought she had discarded that version of herself along with her feelings for House, yet, like her love, it was still hiding beneath the surface of the new and improved Cameron, the go-to-it girl who could make her own decisions regardless what anyone thought or did, the woman who chose which path to traverse and stuck to it, even if the path was difficult or wrong. It was this tenacity which had led her to believe for a few short months that she was impervious to House's charms—yes, charms. House had his merits, however few they were, and it was these qualities which had first attracted her to him. And despite all the crude jokes and well-aimed insults, it was his intrinsic worth that drew her back time and again.

She cursed herself for actually believing he had been pursuing her this time around. He had never made a single move; he hadn't needed to. She was the ocean to his shore. No matter how far she distanced herself from him, he always managed to pull her in, remaining as sold and as stagnant as before. But then. . . even shorelines sifted and altered with the pressure from the water. Even sand could be molded. Perhaps she _had_ made a difference with House. Maybe he wanted her as much as she wanted him. That look in the hallway indicated as much, but if it was one thing House had taught her it was to trust her inner cynic. And the skeptic in her was saying she was a fool. After all, if the old Cameron still lived in her, then the old House most assuredly still resided in him, and that House had never thought of her as anything more than an attractive colleague.

"Get over him," rang Chase's voice in her ears. So many times during their tumultuous relationship Chase had accused Cameron of her residual feelings for House, but she had always dismissed his words as the delusions of a jealous, insecure man. Now she realized Chase had been able to see through her deception better than she. Even Cuddy had seen through it. The only one who did not appear to notice her feelings was House, the object of her affections. Irony was a cruel companion, and he spent far too much time at Cameron's side.

Cameron drowned her frustrations in a bottle of merlot. She wasn't _depressed_ about her unrequited love. There was no point. She knew what she had known five years ago: that House was incapable of loving her. She was _aggravated_ at herself for putting her mind and body through the same torture again. When would those looks they shared stop giving her fantasies of reciprocated love? When would she learn?

**88**

House was definitely in trouble. It wasn't the jealousy he sporadically felt—okay, every time he spied Cameron with another man—that clued him in. Nor was it the reoccurring dreams of him and Cameron kissing that grew in ever-increasing intensity which warned him of the imminent danger. It was what happened after he woke up that horrified him. One early morning, after a particularly vivid dream, he awoke to the taste of strawberries on his tongue and something wet and salty pressing on his eyelids and running down his unshaven face.

At first House passed the tears off as some sort of allergic reaction to the new fabric softener he had been using. After all, _House didn't cry_. It wasn't physically possible, he was pretty sure. He had dammed up his tear ducts years ago along with any foolish emotion that might make him likeable, and yet . . . something in that dream had left him spiritually empty and craving the emotional and intangible. Evidently Cameron had gotten to him and torn down the ten-foot thick walls around his heart. He felt so vulnerable without the stone battlement safely encasing him, and that unfamiliar feeling of fear crept back into his mind.

Yep, he was in deep, deep trouble. What irritated him even worse than these overwhelming emotions was the fact that Wilson had discovered the truth before him: he loved Cameron. Not in the conventional sense, God no. That was far too prosaic for a genius like House. He loved her in a selfish "I can't function without her, just like my Vicodin" way, and just like with his pill, there were days he wanted to quit her. He needed to be rid of his dependency of her. Dependency was a sign of weakness. It let the world know that he craved the companionship of other human beings—other stupid, fallible humans incapable of fully emulating or even understanding his brilliance.

But there it was: despite his reticence to admit his feelings, he needed Cameron to heal his emotional pain, just as he needed the Vicodin for the physical symptoms. When had he become so pathetic?

**88**

Their next meeting was subdued and strained as they both spent the majority of the time watching the other for any sign of affection. But the master had taught the pupil well. They both masked their feelings, and nothing could be assessed from their awkward conversation except that it was awkward. During the next few weeks they continued their tentative _pas de deaux_, never making a misstep in the intricate choreography but also never fully committing to the passion of the dance.

After several frustrating encounters where House found it hard to distinguish the smirks from the smiles or the sarcasm from the sincerity, he reluctantly decided to go to Wilson for advice. It was extremely difficult to go to one's friend and admit that he had been right all along, but ever since House had struck up this friendship with Cameron he had been learning all about humility, the number one lesson being: humility sucks. Quite literally. Modesty sucked the life from him; he couldn't understand how people could be so naturally unassuming. It must be a disease.

Wilson didn't even look up from his case file when House lumbered into his office and situated himself on his friend's green sofa, wiggling around until he found the sweet spot. With his head still bent over his paper, Wilson muttered more to himself than to House, 'Hey, Wilson, do you mind if I interrupt your very important work and bother you with some insipid problem of mine?' No, of course not, House. Take all the time in the world.'"

House twirled his cane around in the air. "In my defense, your patient is still going to be dying ten minutes from now."

Wilson rolled his eyes and flipped a page. "Nice, House."

"Just stating the obvious," House quipped in return.

"Did you ever consider the possibility that if you left me alone for long enough I might find the cure for cancer?" Wilson's brown eyes briefly rested on his companion's face before he hunched over his work again.

"Don't be an idiot. If you find the cure for cancer you'll be out of a job."

"But I'll be financially set for life, so I won't need to work."

"You'll be bored." House seemed terrified at the prospect of Wilson lying in the lap of luxury on some private island, no longer easily accessible for his selfish purposes. "Can we get back to me?"

Groaning at the utter egocentricity, Wilson crossly rustled the papers on his desk and turned his attention to his computer screen. "Why not? All we ever do is talk about you. Why change it now?"

The slight did not faze House. He continued to spin his cane around in semicircles, his eyes following the movement as if mesmerized. "I have a problem."

"There's a lovely rehab center on the fifth floor."

"Not the drugs," House snapped. He was sick to death of his friend's ribbing. "I have a problem with . . ." He trailed off, his face waning and his windpipe closing of its own stubborn volition.

For the first time during their conversation Wilson looked up with genuine interest. "With?" he prodded.

"With Cameron," House finished in a grating timbre, as if he had just swallowed the contents of a gravel truck. "You. Were. Right," he added through gritted teeth. Wilson's eyes were saucers, and his bushy brows disappeared into his forehead. "I'm in love with her."

House appreciated the fact that his friend did not dance giddily around the room, though he could tell Wilson sorely wanted to. Instead, Wilson slapped his palms on his desk, grinned from ear to ear and leaned back in his chair, making one of his trademark "Oho!" sounds.

"I knew it!" Wilson crowed.

"What am I supposed to do?" House beat his head with the top of his cane.

"You tell her how you feel!" Wilson was often surprised at the denseness of his intelligent friend.

"Why do I have to make the first move?" House pouted.

"Cameron made the first move last time, and you slammed the door in her face, probably figuratively _and_ literally. You really think she's going to put herself through that torment a second time?"

"So I should be tortured instead? That seems fair."

"What have you contributed to this relationship so far?"

"'So far, there _isn't_ a relationship," protested House. "For all I know she really meant it when she said she was over me. I could be wasting my time."

Wilson actually felt sympathy for his friend, which was an unusual experience. "There's only one way to find out."

"No," House said flatly, his mouth a firm, straight line. "I am not going risk rejection just to find out if Cameron has feelings for me."

"If she does reject you, which I find highly unlikely, you'll be in no worse shape than you are now."

House glared. "Not helping." Wilson murmured apologies, but House wasn't in a forgiving mood. "See, this is why I didn't want to fall in love. Love just opens you up to hurt and disappointment."

"Just listen to yourself. You're projecting an outcome for the situation without any proof to back it up."

"I wanted proof. I've been trying to find out for the last several weeks whether she has any feelings left for me, but she's been so distant and aloof."

"What about you? Have you been Mr. I'm-open-about-my-feelings?"

It was House's turn to roll his eyes. "Of course not."

"What do you expect? She's putting up a wall of defense, just like you are."

"_I'm_ trying to protect myself. For all I know, she's acting this way because she wants nothing to do with me."

"You _want_ her to reject you," Wilson accused him. "Because then you'll have a perfect excuse for being miserable."

House jeered at his friend. "Oh, please."

His fingers planted on the desk for balance, Wilson rose to his feet. "Then what are you waiting for?" House stared at him mutely, clearly unable to think of an answer. "That's what I thought." He sank back into his chair. "You're afraid, I understand. But, House, you also hate the unknown. You are going to go crazy if you don't find out if Cameron loves you."

House really resented the fact that Wilson knew him so implicitly. He gripped the arm of the sofa with one hand and the handle of his cane with the other. "So . . ."

"So?"

"So, I'm treating this like a medical case. I'm just trying to get to bottom of the mystery. No personal agenda attached to it."

Wilson sighed in defeat and rubbed his temple, trying to ward off a headache. "If being analytical gives you courage, then fine; treat the Cameron situation like a disease."

House was too intent on coaching himself to notice the disdain in Wilson's voice. "I'll just confront her, ask her if she wants to jump my bones, and we'll go from there."

"You might want to be more romantic about it," Wilson hesitantly suggested.

House popped a Vicodin and nodded. "I can do this."

"Great." Wilson gave him the thumbs up sign. "When are you going to ask her?"

"Tomorrow," House hid his nervousness under a veneer of nonchalance. "Or maybe next week. Or next month . . ."

Wilson's head hit the desk.


	10. Chapter 10: And Last

The next time they spotted each other in the halls, they both immediately darted in the opposite direction. Their determination to avoid one another resonated strongly with Cameron. What did it mean? Did it signify the end of their relationship? Perhaps it was for the best. Now she didn't have to suppress her feelings for him and pretend they were "just friends."

House had similar fears, except, unlike Cameron, he wasn't ready to give up. Which was why he decided to renew his vigorous pursuit of her the only way he knew how: by pestering her at home.

He came to her one night, not drunk like the previous time, but sober to the point of inhibition. He appeared at a loss as to what to do next. It was as if his entire focus had been on getting to her apartment and knocking on her door, and he wasn't sure how to proceed from there. "May I come in?"

"It's late."

"It will only take a moment."

"I'm tired." The edginess in her tone threw him more off guard than he already was. The Cameron of the past would have never found a reason to turn him away. He wasn't sure how to respond to the Cameron standing before him now.

He used his cane to push open her door, and the tip brushed her shoulder ever so slightly. He imagined how it would have felt if his hand had touched her instead. "Can I borrow a book?"

"House . . ." She gave his cane a shove, and he let it fall heavily to his side. It would have been so easy to push against her, but what would have been the point? To prove he was physically stronger than she? Any fool could see that.

Cameron involuntarily crossed her arms, equipping herself with the best armor she had. "I'm in no mood for your games."

"I don't have to come in. Just hand me a book through the door."

"Go home."

She was holding him back, the strength of her emotional bulwark protecting her from all his feeble attempts at wooing. She had built up a tower around her heart just as his own had come crashing down around him, crumbling into infinitesimal fragments. They were at cross purposes. He left her alone.

Cameron wanted to hate him for putting her through this turmoil. Why did he do it? Why did he pursue her one moment and then ignore her existence in the next? Why did he endlessly toy with human emotions? Why did he have to convince her he cared with one gesture, only to dissuade her of it with another? What did he hope to accomplish? Cameron didn't know, and she wished to whatever Great Force was out there that she didn't care. But she did—far too much.

It was _her_ turn to avoid _him_. She kept to the emergency room during work hours and went out to the coffee shop across the street on her breaks. House was wise not to follow her. Any confrontation with him in her current state of mind would have resulted in an ugly row. She needed to breathe, to think through this the situation. Should she open up to him after the countless times he broke her heart? Should she trust him? She wanted to—oh, God, how she wanted to. But she wasn't going to let him into her heart unless she knew for certain that he truly loved her. House had to confess his feelings for her, and she wasn't sure he could.

**88**

"She threw me out." House whined to Wilson over a Reuben and soda.

Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes before he could restrain himself. "And I suppose you went to her apartment at some ungodly hour of the morning?"

"It was midnight."

"Go back at a decent hour, when she isn't cranky from sleep deprivation, and try again." Wilson wondered if he would speak to his children in the same patronizing tone.

House picked at the sauerkraut on his sandwich. "I failed once. Why should I set myself up to fail again?"

"Because you love her."

House sincerely wished Wilson wasn't such an insufferable know-it-all. It would save him so much trouble if his friend was an idiot.

The next time he visited her, he used his work as a façade. "Open up! I need help with my case," he shouted so loudly that the neighbors threatened to have him arrested.

Cameron gave him credit for his persistence. If she hadn't been so certain that his pursuit of her was a passing fancy, she might actually have believed he truly loved her. As it was, she still needed vocal proof of his affection.

She humored him for an hour, secretly glad of the inclusion into his life, but before she could succumb to his brilliance and neediness, she sent him home with a collection of short stories by O'Henry. "Read one a day and you'll be done in a week," she instructed, knowing, or at least hoping, that it would take the cynical House much longer to plod through the sentimental and poignant fables.

He came back two days later, an expert on all things O'Henry. Cameron couldn't decide whether to be impressed or irritated at his tenacity. She knew one thing: he had her intrigued, like always.

"Is all classical literature so damned depressing?" he complained, slumping in her chair uninvited.

She wouldn't admit it, but she like his presence in her pristine apartment. He added a warmth—a strange, intoxicating warmth—to the cold, clinical furniture which she had promised for years to replace with something more open and welcoming. Cameron tossed him a smaller paperback. "Give Jane Austen a whirl."

"I'd rather read nothing but Proust for the rest of my life." Considering he hadn't gotten through the first chapter of the Frenchman's novel, that was quite the oath.

"I promise you'll love her." She was enjoying their conversation despite herself.

House didn't know if it was his desire to please Cameron, or the fact that he was actually vaguely intrigued by the opening paragraph of _Pride and Prejudice_, but he took the book home. He spent the next few days hounding the ER and tormenting Cameron about her terrible taste in writers. When she asked him how he was enjoying Jane Austen he pretended to be disgusted by the corny situations. "Aren't you the one who told me you didn't need a happy ending?" he teased her.

"Sounds like me."

"Then why read this pitifully optimistic novel about true love conquering all?"

Cameron frowned. "There's a huge difference between want and need, House. I don't need a happy ending, but I still want one."

House was too flummoxed to respond. He should have realized that despite the tough front Cameron put on, essences of her younger, more naive self still existed. House realized he didn't mind her optimism. Who could blame her for wanting the storybook ending? She was a damaged soul searching for her own form of redemption. Looking at her, as the bright fluorescent lights created an imperfect halo around her blonde head, he found he wanted his own happy ending, one that included her.

"You had your chance at happiness," House remarked, not able to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

"You mean with Chase?" She felt a stab of betrayal. How could he bring up this painful subject?

"Yeah." He clandestinely eyed her. "What happened between you two kids? You were going so strong."

"We were," she agreed, "until he proposed to me."

House felt sure his infarction had magically spread to his other leg, for he suddenly couldn't stand on either. He groped the wall for support. "Usually an engagement brings people closer together," he managed to get out.

She laughed ironically, sadly. "That's only if the two people in question are madly in love with each other."

"Oh?" House's vocal chords where taut.

"I turned him down. I didn't think it would be fair to lead him on, since my heart wasn't fully into the relationship. It never was."

House waited for her to continue and confess her feelings for him. Wouldn't that show Wilson if after all of his harassing Cameron was the first one to act? But she was as stubborn as House.

"I was still hurting about my husband," she supplied as an explanation. It was partly true. House was the only man who had ever come close to filling the void her husband had unknowingly made when he had died. When Chase had proposed, she had been forced to reconcile with her feelings, and had discovered that a lifetime with the young Australian wasn't going to fulfill her needs and desires.

"Oh." He's voice was flat, but he veiled his disappointment with one of his judgmental lectures. "You're pathetic. You have to move on eventually. You can't wallow in self-pity forever."

"Says the man who vowed never to love again when his lawyer girlfriend left him."

"That was different," he protested.

"I see," Cameron replied sardonically. "You're saying that you're allowed to wallow because Stacy _chose_ to abandon you, whereas my husband didn't choose to die. Nice excuse."

"I'll move on if you move on," he challenged.

She scrutinized his face but couldn't determine whether he was serious or not. "Okay," she finally said. "Let's see who can find love first." She wondered why House couldn't see the love that was in front of him. Unbeknownst to Cameron, House was thinking the exact same thing about her.

**88**

It was only fitting that he should confess his feelings in the place where they had first argued, first felt the magnetism irrepressibly drawing them to each other, and had first kissed. She timidly knocked on his office door, jostling the case file in her hand to let him know that she wasn't coming for any personal reasons. At least, that's what she told herself and hoped he believed. House was eager for any interaction and wouldn't have cared if the case had been mind-numbing and sleep-inducing. He beckoned her in, each movement calculated and controlled, not a hint of enthusiasm.

She calmly addressed him, but she was brimming with tension and a feral need to kiss him. "Twenty-year-old woman with extreme joint pain. She just started hallucinating in the ER." Their fingers lightly touched as she passed him the papers, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping at the sensation.

House felt it too. He swallowed a Vicodin. "Could prove interesting," he muttered, which was his way of complimenting her.

Cameron waited—for what, she wasn't sure. He didn't look up from the patient's file, and she knew she had been dismissed. Heart sinking, she turned to leave.

"What are you doing this evening?"

She swung back around, jarred at the inquiry. "I . . . uh . . . I don't know. Watching television—something boring like that."

House's pulse was quickening, and he wanted to drop the whole subject, but his insatiable curiosity needed to know if her feelings for him were unchanged. "Do you still eat?"

She scoffed. "You saw me cooking that omelet." That morning seemed centuries ago, and she couldn't blame him if he didn't remember.

"Yes, but I never actually saw you _eat_ it," he pointed out. "So, is that a yes or no?"

She inhaled deeply and asked the impossible. "Why do you want to know?"

House stood eye to eye with her. He had heard that the eyes were the gateway to the soul, and he begrudgingly had to agree. He had found in the past that Cameron's thoughts were so much more accessible when he was looking right into her green eyes. "Because . . ."

Her face was indecipherable; the new and improved Cameron wasn't so easy to read. He wanted to shake her slender shoulders and knock the truth out of her.

Cameron could tell he was at the breaking point, and yet she pushed. She had to know. "Are you asking me out? A bit late for that. I'm over you, House, remember?"

House's eyes darted back and forth before finally coming to rest on her troubled face. "I know you said you were over me." He paused, his brow creased from the effort of his confession. "But that doesn't mean I'm over you."

Cameron wondered if she was suffering from a stroke or some other neurological disorder that caused her to hear things. There was no way House was confessing his love for her—unless this was some cruel joke. But even then, House wasn't one to put his pride on the line to carry through with an elaborate prank. So if she wasn't hearing things, and he wasn't joking, it could only mean one thing: he had finally admitted his feelings. His puppy dog eyes and short frown indicated as much. She took a deep breath and shook her head to clear her thoughts.

Time was suspended as House watched Cameron deliberate his answer. Judging from the stupefied expression on her face, she wasn't too thrilled with his proclamation. House felt his heart jump from his throat. He knew this wasn't physically possible, but he honestly could no longer feel it beating in his chest cavity. He cursed himself for thinking—hoping—that she still loved him after all the pain, humiliation and ridicule he'd put her through. He was a fool, a stupid, stupid fool.

"Just forget it," he croaked. "Forget the whole damn thing."

Cameron bit her bottom lip, turning it a vibrant crimson. "House," she began tentatively, almost meekly. "When I said I was over you, I lied."

He found his heart had returned to his chest and was pounding loudly. Afraid he would sound too hopeful if he asked her to repeat herself, he elected to conceal his joy with a mocking simper. "Noooo? _Really_?" His tone displayed his trademark snark. Seeing her chagrined expression, he added, "Don't worry. You almost had me fooled with that line. If you hadn't let me in that night, I would have completely believed you."

She wasn't sure if he was still being ironic, but she didn't think it really mattered at this point. "I let you in a long time ago, House. That was my biggest mistake."

House's blue eyes lost every bit of mirth. He was in over his head. He could either ride the tide out and see where it took him, or fight against the current to get to the safety of shore. Neither option was very appealing. The one decision, to face up to his confession, would leave him at the mercy of Cameron. The other option, to flee, kept him in control but left him alone. Why had he thought he could play the romantic lead?

He closed his eyes and counted to five, then opened them, resolved. "Cameron." It was a statement in itself. She could tell he had changed his mind, but, crestfallen as she was, she listened. She had made her decision to love and trust House, and she would deal with the consequences however heartbreaking.

He continued, despite every desire to bolt from the room. "I'm an old, broken drug addict."

She took a step toward him. "I don't care."

"I've slept with countless of women—most of them prostitutes. Who knows what STDs I've got?"

"I was nearly infected by an AIDS patient. I'm not worried." She crossed her arms in playful defiance and gazed up at him.

House stood his ground, literally and figuratively, his legs shoulder length apart, his cane squarely between them with both hands clutching the handle. "I'm a selfish, arrogant bastard who always has to be right."

She closed the gap between them. The only thing keeping their bodies from touching was his infernal cane—a real, physical barrier representing the intangible one preventing him from letting her in. "I don't care," she firmly repeated.

"I'll leave you like I left Cuddy. I'll—"

"House . . . shut up." She wrapped her arms around him and silenced his excuses with a kiss. House didn't resist. He even dared to press his tongue into her mouth and was happily surprised when she reciprocated. She still tasted like strawberries—strawberries and spearmint from the gum she must have been chewing recently.

When they finally drew apart for a breath, House found that he had somehow dropped his cane during the proceedings and his hands were now stroking the small of her back. He cleared his throat and stepped back on wobbly, uncertain feet. Whether his shaking was physiological or otherwise was an enigma to him. He did know one thing: he was hooked.

A hopeful, exultant smile on her face, Cameron handed him his cane.

"I'm going to make you unhappy," he warned, his voice refusing to come out gruff and menacing. What was happening to him?

"We make our own happiness," she replied philosophically.

House assessed the situation with a tilt of the head and a furrow of the eyebrows. "You're an idiot," he surmised. And he bent in for another kiss.

END


End file.
